


will you remember me

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Conversations, Death, Declarations Of Love, Drabble, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, My First AO3 Post, My First Fanfic, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 14:15:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15196541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: short drabble in which sherlock is worried





	will you remember me

It was quiet in the apartment. It had grown to be the silent time of morning where the sound of birds chirping and the subtle clink of a spoon stirring sugar into a cup of tea was just enough noise. A grey aura filled the air outside, gloomy clouds gradually rising over the skyline. It was calm. A peaceful calm, undisturbed and beautiful. In the midst of this calm was a peaceful apartment living room, undisturbed aside from one man, who was, in fact, slightly bothered. John sat, and he breathed, and he listened. He thought, and he wondered. He thought about how nice it was to sit, breathe, and wonder on this silent mid-morning. But he also wondered why this feeling kept creeping up inside him. Why a melancholy state of mind always seemed to cement itself inside of his head. It was familiar, but unwanted, like a cold, and he had a vague idea of where he had caught it. It wasn’t the weather, although he wished he could have passed it off as such. No, it wasn’t just today. It was often. And it was recent. He sat in his thoughts for a long while, working out the conversation he had had with Sherlock the morning before in his head. It had been a day not unlike today, with birds chirping and spoons clinking and John in his chair wondering. But Sherlock had been wondering too. Perhaps a little too much.

_“John,” Sherlock placed down a letter he had previously been reading, but stared at it, never looking John in the eye. It was face-up in a pile of letters that the two men had received from fans, clients, critics, everyone who had something to say that they simply couldn’t keep to themselves._

_John didn’t look up from his paper. “Yes?”_

_Sherlock shifted in his desk chair. His eyes flickered back and forth, like they did when he was considering something, or making decisions. It was strange. Twitchy, nervous Sherlock was always strange. He opened his mouth, closed it, licked his lips, opened it again and looked John in the eye._

_“I’m going to die”_

_John smiled, briefly. He knew it wasn’t funny, but he still saw the humor in Sherlock’s way of speaking. The discourse to follow was in no way delightful, but there was no need for that shock. No need for him to have started a conversation that way. Sherlock’s face stayed stone cold. John blinked. His eyebrows scrunched up and he adjusted himself, setting down his paper. “Care to elaborate?” He asked, concerned._

_Sherlock’s eyes darted back and forth between John’s, deciding how exactly to look at him._   
_“One day,” Sherlock began, “I’ll die.”_

_John waited for Sherlock to continue. He sat and stared at Sherlock, concern still sitting on his brow. “I know that.” John said. “What are we talking about, exactly?”_

_“John, every single day I get these letters,” Sherlock sighed, gesturing to the pile of letters they receive by mail. “Every single day one of them is a threat. Every single day we ignore it, because they aren’t real. I can tell they aren’t real. I know I’m not wrong. But one day, I will be. Wrong, maybe. Dead, certainly. Then what will happen?”_   
_John was gazing at Sherlock, his gaze shaded by his brow bone, his eyes still frantic with worry. “Sherlock, what are you talking about?”_

_“You, John. Everyone. Them,” He pointed to the pile again._

_“Sherlock, you know you’re not going to die any time soon, right? You-”_

_“You don’t know that John. I might. We don’t know. You don’t know. I could choke on a biscuit this afternoon. Then what would you think. What if the last thing I said to you was ‘be quiet’, or ‘shut up’. What would you remember me by, John?”_

_John pressed his lips together, partly in surprise, partly in confusion. This sort of thing may be a perfectly ration fear…but it definitely wasn’t a perfectly normal thing for Sherlock to bring up. Especially not like this, in the form of some sort of outbreak. Sherlock had his moments, of course, he always had. He was able to be sentimental, not just acting, but really feeling. He was capable, as John knows, of loving, although he constantly berated the feeling as ‘simply a waste of time and effort’. But this was strange, this much consciousness of other people’s perceptions. Especially for Sherlock, him always being so extremely nonchalant._

_John stared. “I would remember that… that I loved you. That you were my best friend, and that…” He paused. He looked at Sherlock once again, still mildly confused as to how this conversation arose. “I would remember that you’re the best man I ever knew.”_

_There was silence. These things had been said before, they were nothing new. Meaningful, yes, but known to both of them._

_“What if…” Sherlock began. He abruptly turned to face John, looking him in the eye. “What if I knew? When I would die, I mean. What if i could just...tell you when.”_

_John scoffed. “You mean, what, whenever you’re ready? You’ll what, off yourself? As long as I give you my approval? Because I can assure you, I never will.”_

_“No, not that. I just wish I knew. So that I would know what to say. When to say it.”_

_Silence again. No peaceful silence, just cold, lonely pause in conversation._

_“Just say it.” John offered, still not fully understanding the concern._

_Sherlock shook his head. “I need you to know when it happens. Not just now.”_

_“But I will. I’ll always know, I won’t just forget.” John leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, gazing at Sherlock, still several feet away. Sherlock glanced at the ground and looked up. John noted how weird it was for Sherlock to be acting like this. Dodgy, nervous, concerned._

_“Will you be sad?” Sherlock murmured._

_“When you die? Sherlock, are you mad? Obviously I’ll be fucking sad. Probably the saddest I’ll ever be,” John replied, baffled at the fact that Sherlock would even ask. He was absolutely bewildered at the fact that Sherlock would have these doubts or concerns. Little less bring them up to him in conversation. Yes, they were close, but Sherlock was Sherlock. He didn’t ask John about things like this. John didn’t even think he thought about things like this. Apparently, he was not only wrong about those things, but he was learning that Sherlock had doubts. He had fears, and valid ones, too. And John wasn’t completely sure that he knew how to respond to something like that._

_“Sherlock, what is it that you think I’d forget?”_

_Sherlock was statuous._

_“Sherlock.” He urged._

_“That I love you.” Sherlock murmured._

_John sat up. And he held back a smile, pressing his lips together. Sherlock didn’t say it that often. Not nearly as much as John did. And John understood why. But the fact that Sherlock had made this fucking show out of it… like he was nervous. Like he was making some huge confession. It was humorous. As if John could ever forget._

_“Don’t laugh, John. Listen. I’m not going to die of old age,” Sherlock deadpanned. John released his bright expression and leaned in again. “and we can’t predict whether or not either of us will know. We can’t predict that I won’t have to tell you things I don’t mean. I may have to leave the country, John. Without you.” He began to flail his arms. His facial expressions became animated and deeply fearful. “I may have to kill myself,”_

_“Sherlock- “_

_“No, John, you have no idea what circumstances we could weave our way into. I could be kidnapped! I could be poisoned! I could be buried alive or thrown into a vat of acid-“_

_“Sherlock!” John snapped. Visibly upset, John got up and walked past Sherlock into the kitchen, scanning the room for something other than this conversation to focus on. He ended up standing, facing his back to Sherlock, who was sat quietly in his chair looking at the floor._

_“John, I just wanted…” He shook his head. “You just need to know that even if it seems like I left you, I didn’t.”_

He knew. He would never assume that of Sherlock. Even when all the odds were stacked against them, they stuck up for each other. He knew Sherlock would never leave him, even if that was exactly how it seemed. If anything, John would go out of his way to prove it wasn’t true. Time and time again, they had saved each other’s asses from everything, and John knows Sherlock would never be so quick to destroy something it took him so long to achieve. The thing that it took him years to build and accept, the thing that caused him pain and heartbreak, anxiety, regret and commitment. The thing that kept him in his home and kept him alive. Sherlock had finally discovered what it was to love, and John would never so much as entertain the thought that Sherlock would throw this away, as much as Sherlock loved to insist it was a burden.

But this incident, although it had been resolved, still troubled John. It hurt him that Sherlock didn’t seem to trust him or know how he felt. It worried him severely that Sherlock had become somewhat scared, or worried by these empty threats. It was rare that these things were brought out in Sherlock, so what could have possibly triggered this kind of panic?

So, he sat, contemplating exactly what Sherlock could have seen or heard that caused this sort of dispute. Sherlock, so fucking worried. That’s what made this morning dull. It was disturbing. It was unsettling.

But, John soon realized after Sherlock had gotten up and walked into the kitchen with a small smile, it wasn’t concerning. It was the opposite, in fact. Sherlock was up again, walking around the flat. Clinking away. Flipping through his letters again, unphased. But this morning was still different than other mornings. Because for once, John felt like he knew Sherlock. Even if he could never exactly understand what was going on in Sherlock’s head, at least yesterday he got a glimpse. Today, he had a little more to think about. There was more to consider after seeing sherlock so openly express his fears and worries. Because Sherlock had been real. Raw. Sherlock expressed his concern, and it had been resolved. And John was happy. He was relieved, and he went back to his wondering, without troubles.


End file.
